Six Feet Under Chapter 11: The Magnificent Maxwell, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 11, everyone! In which we officially meet the guy playing Beetlejuice's role and ask the ever-important question—just what are those pointy shoulders, anyway?

We also reference the title of my Don't Starve/Great Gatsby story, because I'm like that. :)

Wilson struggled to wakefulness, groaning as he did so.

"Say, pal, you don't look so good."

Wilson bolted upright—

A puff of smoke dissipated in front of him.

Huh?

He looked around—there was Willow, struggling upright—they were sitting on marble tile, like in that odd social security office—

And around them, darkness.

"Where are we?" Willow asked, looking around.

"I…don't know," Wilson said slowly. What had that machine done?

And then a pair of lanterns sprung to life, dark flames guttering. Another pair followed, and another—

"But I know where we're going," he said finally.

They followed the lights, if they could be called that. They were weird, that's what they were—and they made her brain hurt.

"This isn't going to be like that office thing again, is it?" Willow asked.

"I hope not," Wilson muttered, scratching at his arm again—he was going to render it raw at this rate.

"Stop that," she scolded, grabbing his arm—

He yelped and yanked it away.

"What's with you?" she asked, irritated now.

"I…uh…you scared me," he managed.

She looked around and was forced to admit that this place had that effect.

And they had reached the end of the lights.

"Now what?" she asked.

"I…don't know," Wilson said slowly. "But we are not going into that darkness. We'd likely be eaten by a Grue."

"Nerd."

"Oh please," someone said before Wilson had a chance to respond. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

And then two sharp claps—

Lights flared around, revealing a round area—

And opposite them, sitting in a huge, spiky-looking black throne, was a man in a suit. Willow couldn't help but shiver at his toothy grin.

"So," the man in the suit said, revealing himself as radio-guy. "You two are the two dips in the attic. Gotta say, I'm not impressed."

Willow managed to swallow her fear—it had been quickly replaced by indignation. "Why don't you come over here and say that to my face, you…you…."

"Very articulate," the guy observed, lighting a cigar—Willow figured it was the odd lighting that made her miss the lighter. "And why should I?"

"Common courtesy," Wilson managed. "We came all this way—"

"And if I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake. Fine then."

The man stood up, struck a sort of ta-da pose—

And then vanished into the ground with a puff of smoke.

"Uh," Wilson noised as they both stared at the ground. "That's…."

"Different?" Willow guessed.

"Glad you approve."

Suddenly the guy was behind them—good gravy, he was taller than Wilson!—wrapping his arms around their necks and pulling them in close.

"Now," the guy said, sending cigar smoke roiling over them. "For this to work I'm going to have to learn all about you two—get real close—" this accompanied by him tightening his grip—ack! "You get what I'm saying?"

"Ulk," Willow managed.

Wilson was a bit more articulate. "Who do you think you are!?" he spluttered.

"Ah, of course," the guy said, letting go and stepping back to strike a pose, hands on his lapels. "I am the Magnificent Maxwell, at your service."

Willow looked the freshly-identified Maxwell up and down, from the combover to the ridiculously pointed shoulders to the suit that—while fine—looked a few shades away from threadbare. And his face—if that grin wasn't bad enough, his eyes were shaded enough that she wasn't sure if he didn't really have yellow irises and black sclera.

In all, Maxwell he may be, but magnificent he was not.

Willow looked at Wilson, who was also scowling. "Please tell me there are other people we can contact."

"What was the name of that other guy?" Wilson mused. "Beetle—"

"Hey," Maxwell snarled, crossing his arms and tapping his wingtip shoe. "You haven't even been here for five minutes, and you think you're fit to give me a review?"

"No clue," Willow admitted. "So thrill us: what are your credentials?"

"Well, I attended Julliard," Maxwell said, hands behind his back and adopting a snooty professional air. "I travelled extensively as a magician, so I'm good at misdirection. I lived through the Great Depression and had a time during that. I'm told I have quite the personality….Let's see, what else? Oh, yes—I'm dead, you wisecrackers!"

Willow wondered how long they could hold the silence, but decided to break it before Wilson screwed it up. "But can you be scary?"

Maxwell looked like he was resisting a face-palm at the moment. "All right," he said finally. "Tell me: what do you think of this?"

Willow didn't know what just happened in front of her, but it was enough to make her and Wilson both scream and grab each other in terror.

"Well, I see that's a hit at least," Maxwell observed, back to normal—which, Willow felt, was extremely subjective at the moment.

"Can you excuse us please?" Willow squeaked. She didn't wait for an answer before dragging Wilson away.

"So what do you think?" she asked when she thought they were out of earshot.

"Epaulettes," Wilson said immediately.

"Do what?"

"Those pointy shoulders."

"I was guessing shoulder pads, personally—that's not what I mean!" she snapped. "I don't think having him in the house is an improvement over the Deetzes!"

"I don't think there's exactly a bustling market for this sort of thing."

Willow made an aggravated noise and stomped in a circle. The small of her back itched.

"If I may interpose in this lover's spat," Maxwell said. "You haven't seen what I can do—at the very least, you'll want a trial period."

"Fine," Willow said, waving him off. "We'll go home and think about it—"

"Perfect!"

And before they could react, they were falling through the floor.